Pristine Snow
by Youko-Kokuryuuha
Summary: Because it is clean, pure, unsullied, and he is none of these things. Regulus drabble.


Disclaimer: I own Regulus and Druella Black. Money nao. (Joking, pleasedon'tsue.)

A/N: Another fic I'm ripping straight from the journal.

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**Pristine Snow**

He stares at it for a while, intrigued by its peculiar nature. It falls delicately from above, bright, unsoiled, and beautiful, and he can't help but feel a mixture of wonder and jealousy. It is clean, pure, unsullied, and yet he is none of these things. He is sordid and dirty and besmirched by his blood, by his birth into a family that scorns the world and detests itself. A family of murderers and runaways and disappointments. And he is one of them, though he isn't quite sure which one yet. He hopes he'll end up more like Andy or Sirius than Bella, because no one wants to be like Bella—

Regulus blinks as a snowflake lands softly on his nose.

He cups it in his hands tenderly and cradles the crystal as if it were a child. He is drawn to it, lured by its pious appearance and manner. It is perfect, he thinks, as his breath escapes in tiny, ragged puffs. Perfect in every way.

He marvels at the way it clashes wonderfully against his pale, fair palm, and ponders—briefly—how odd it would look tangled in the black curls of his hair; he feels his high cheek bones flush. It is a stupid, silly, childish thought to think, he _knows_, but still he is drawn. There is nothing, absolutely nothing else at all, like it in this world–

"Aren't you coming, Regulus? It's getting late, and I would quite like to be home before the mudbloods come out."

His mother's insistent voice breaks into his musings, and he clenches his teeth in bitter loathing.

If he is truthful with himself, Regulus knows there are times when he wishes he were a mudblood, too. He is tired of the pureblood life, and resents it more than anything. He resents the traditions of bigotry and arrogance and 'superiority' that come with the 'privilege' and 'noble blood.' If he is truthful, the whole affair disgusts him.

And wouldn't Sirius be proud of him now?

Really, he's never been the crazier of the two; he's always been the smarter. But a part of him is jealous of his wayward brother. He's not wild like Sirius, not nonchalant or brave or strong. He's their parents' favorite instead: the Third Year Slytherin who will go on to uphold the Black name like his brother can't; the one who will smear black against his arm and something darker in his heart.

He should have been like Andy; Andy, who was smart and warm and kind—and nothing like her sister at all. She did the smart thing and ran away from it all, escaped the mantle that he'll have to bear all alone.

But he's not like Sirius or Andy; he's like Bella. He'll be like Bella and he'll be a Death Eater. He'll be everything Mother and Father want him to be, he'll be everything they all tell him he's going to be: he'll be unclean. He'll be tainted and filthy and he'll splatter muggle blood on the clean, clean snow and laugh while doing it, because that's what everyone tells him even if it isn't what he wants.

What he wants is to be a child again. He wants things to be like before. He wants Sirius to be his brother again, to stop hating him for what's going to have to happen; for Andy to come home and hug him, as if she'd never left, as if she'd never hurt him; he wants Cissy to stop acting so cold even though he knows she cries at night, cries like they all cry over their broken, dirty family; and he wants Bella to be _Bella_ again, for her to laugh and be happy, and for that mad gleam in her eye and wickedness in her smile to be gone.

He wants things to be simple, clean—like the snow.

For a moment, for one insane, absurd, glorious moment, he considers telling her this, considers confessing that he is tired of the charade and of trying to become a 'proper young gentleman.' He considers telling her that he wants none of it, none of the Black power or status, and that he only wants to frolic and laugh and smile in the pristine snow, like he'd never been allowed to do as a child. He wants none of it, of this aristocratic lifestyle. He wants to be pure like the snow, he only wants snow—

"Coming, Mother."

The thought slips away as he utters the words from his blue lips. He lets the snowflake fall, reluctantly, before shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes and ambling after his mother though the thicket of white.

(Later that night, he steals away from under Mother and Father's haughty gazes and plays in the snow.)

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_Fin_

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A/N: 'Nother HP oneshot done, and it turns out that it's still about the Blacks. Go figure—they _are_ the most interesting family in the series, though. But that aside, I hope you enjoyed the fic, and hope even more that you'll leave a detailed (or not) review. :3


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